Book enters pre-production phase

When you tell someone that you signed a book deal, the first question they almost always ask is, "When will it be out?"  The answer I give is an honest one: I don't know. 

The follow-up question is usually along the line of, "What is happening with your book now?"  The answer I have given, until now, is again: I don't know.

I still have no definitive answer to the first question, although I have good reason to believe it will be released within the year -- possibly as early as this summer, although that may be wishful thinking on my part.

On the second question, I now have a better idea of what is happening with my book.  It is officially in the pre-production phase, which means that the publisher isn't doing much of anything, and I, the author, have a lot of work to do and little time to do it. 

Before the book goes into the production phase (which is when the publisher's work begins), I have to provide them with what is in essence my idea of a finished product.  This means formatting and editing to the publisher's specifications.  It is also my last chance to make substantive changes to the manuscript.

In addition to what goes inside of the book, there's also the matter of what goes on the outside.  The pre-production phase is my one opportunity to have any real input on what the book cover will look like.  Since I failed Coloring 101 in the 3rd grade (I couldn't stay in the lines), I sought out the help of a good friend, Cindy Anderson, a talented graphic designer out of Portland.  Although she has no experience at designing book covers, she took up the challenge.  I am so thrilled that she has -- and can't wait to see what she comes up with.   As I understand it, she even has the Crayola 64 count box and is able to use all of the colors.  I, on the other hand, never graduated from the 4 count box. 

The back cover is of course where the dreaded author photo goes.  That for me is possibly the most painful part of this whole process and one that I know I will forever live to regret.  For the record, no, I will not be holding a pipe and wearing a tweed jacket. 

So that is the answer to what is happening right now with the book.  I have now less than one month to complete all of these tasks, which explains why there have been fewer journal entries this week on my blog.  The good news is that once the pre-production phase is over, the production phase begins -- and that is when the fun really starts. 

All hail the King: Writing Process Revealed Part III

My residency at Bradley Place was only one year. Even though I moved away -- and moved on -- in some ways that place never left me.

Almost three years after I packed my meager belongings and moved out of my studio apartment, I returned to it for the first time.  Not in reality but in fiction.  Little did I know that I would be staying there for the better part of four years.  That's how long it would take for me to finish telling my little story.

Not unlike the first time I moved into this place, I brought little with me.  One thing that I perhaps should have had, but didn't, was an outline.  For that negligence I will accept my flogging from the headmaster of the School of Proper Novel Writing Technique.  Honestly, I wish that I could be that organized.  My mind just doesn't think that far ahead. 

All I had with me was this budding situation (i.e., What if the quiet, unassuming neighbor was charged with killing his neighbor) with no idea where I would go with it, which may explain why it took me four years to reach the ending.

As I would later learn from master storyteller Stephen King, in his book, On Writing, this isn't as awful a starting point as it might sound.  (On Writing, you should note, is the only non-fiction book to make my Ten Books list of books that made me want to be an author.  Without it, I very much doubt that I would have finished writing my own book.  So for writing On Writing, I owe Mr. King a huge debt of gratitude.)

In On Writing, Mr. King gives six key rules for writing a bestseller.  The first of these is the one that stuck with me: Forget plot, but remember the importance of 'situation'.  In his view, "plotting and the spontaneity of real creation aren't compatible."  He goes on to argue that "A strong enough situation renders the whole question of plot moot." 

Such statements were considered blasphemy by some in the creative writing world.  But for me -- a writer who never took a creative writing course -- they were liberating.  I was suddenly freed to take my situation wherever my sometimes wild imagination goes.  The result was Lost in the Ivy.

Snippet's in the bud

You can, apparently, fool a parent an infinite number of times.  That's why the shame is always on the parent.  Your toddler always conveys in clear, quite audible, cries and moans when he does not like the situation that you, the parent, have placed him in.  Yet that message never seems to really get through to the parent.  It's almost as if there's a disconnect in our brain when it comes to what we think our toddler should like and what he is telling us he likes or dislikes.  So we keep putting that toddler in the same situation, thinking that the toddler will get it this time and the result will be different.  Almost universally it isn't.

Case in point: Yesterday, we ventured to Northbrook Court for The Toddler's second professional haircut, at Snippet's Mini-Cuts.  Versions of the kid-friendly hair salon are sprouting up everywhere, it seems, and it's easy to see why. 

For most of us, at least most of us who are carriers of the Y chromosome, the haircut is viewed as a tedious, if not painful task only slightly less objectionable than having teeth pulled.

As a full-fledged carrier of the Y chromosome, I can say that my negative thoughts about haircuts started at an early age.  After all, few things, other than perhaps the dentist, are more terrifying for a child than being plopped on a barber chair, strangled with a cape, and attacked by a clipper-wielding stranger.

So why not attempt to make the haircut a more pleasant, comfortable experience for a child? That's what Snippet's and its kin try to do, complete with novelty car and animal stations and video monitors featuring current children's videos.

As Snippet's says on its website, its salons "are uniquely designed to capture a child's imagination and to welcome them into a wonderland where they feel safe and secure when they are approached for services."  This sounds like a dreamland, and the salons do look pleasing, at least to my adult eye.

But, as any parent knows, a child's dream world can turn into night terrors at any time.  That's what happened the first time we took The Toddler for his professional haircut.  Wonderland was no tea party.

So, of course, as parents, we had the temerity to do it all over again, thinking that things couldn't go worse.  They did -- go worse, that is, which only means that The Parents will be dragging The Toddler, kicking and screaming, up to Northbrook Court again in another two months.  The third time has got to be the charm, right?

In defense of Snippet's, I must say that, under challenging circumstances, their stylists do an incredible job.  The Toddler has somehow come out of his two professional haircuts unscarred (at least physically if not emotionally) and with a pretty good haircut.  That's enough to keep us coming back.

Here is the essay I wrote after The Toddler's first haircut experience:

Snippet's in the bud

The blow-by-blow account of The Toddler's day (okay, 5 minutes) in the barber chair.

The Toddler enters Northbrook Court to the red carpet treatment.  Trumpets are blaring. Confetti is falling. 

Oh, sorry, I'm letting my rather vivid imagination get the better of me.  So there were no trumpets.  And there was no confetti.  But The Toddler did seem to be in an unusually good mood, so much so that he didn't even fight getting into his stroller.  We're off to a promising start.

We arrive at the door of Snippets promptly at 10:30 a.m.  Right on time.  Things are still going good. 

I unleash The Toddler from the stroller, and he immediately runs to the firetruck chair.  This is good.  It's the one open seat, and The Toddler seems to be enchanted by it.  He's spinning the wheels, making sure that it's ready to go just in case a real fire does break out.  I'm thinking this is going to be a breeze.  All of my pre-Snippet's wariness was for naught.

But then a boulder is thrown in the road.  The Toddler's not getting the firetruck.  He's getting the racecar.  So I pick him up and try to place him in the racecar.  It's got a steering wheel.  Surely he'll like that.  But I sense that something is just not right in ToddlerLand.  He's apprehensive and has to be forced into the car. 

Then the stylist turns on the video.  (Snippet's offers a first-time haircut package that includes a videotaping of the experience for $25; the cost of a regular cut without the package is $18). The Toddler goes into deer-in-the-headlights mode, as if he's got a severe case of camera shyness.  Now this isn't all bad, he's just sitting there frozen while the stylist is busy snipping away.  The Toddler doesn't even seem to realize what's going on on top of his head.  He's not happy, but he's not per se unhappy, either.  I'm okay with that.

But then the stylist, who has the fingers of Edward Scissorhands but the personality of Al Gore, asks me to hold his chin.  This is for The Toddler's safety as she cuts around his ears. The Toddler doesn't like having his chin held, and he REALLY doesn't like having the hair cut around his ears.  He's clearly petrified now and it gets worse when she asks me to then hold down his arms and begins her cleanup work with the electric trimmer.  The Toddler is crying and now clearly unhappy with this experience. 

But then it is suddenly all over.  The video camera is turned off.  Mommy rips The Toddler from the chair and out of the store where she finds my friend The Lone Ranger and his two kids who have just gotten off the escalator.  I pay the $25 and give a $5 tip to Al.  In return I'm given a bag with the videotape of The Toddler's first haircut and a snippet of hair that will be used if we ever decide to genetically reproduce him.

The whole process took no more than five minutes, which, if my calculations are correct, comes to a $300-an-hour haircut.  If nothing else, they are efficient. 

And The Toddler came out of it perhaps mentally scarred but not physically scarred, which is in some ways the most miraculous achievement of all.

The haircut itself is, all things considered, pretty good.  Probably better than the haircuts I get for $10.95 at Bo-Rics, which also take about 5 minutes but with only half the fussing and crying.

If you don't believe my story, well, it's all on videotape, which I'm sure The Toddler will cherish for a lifetime (or use as reason to sue his parents for causing undue emotional trauma to a toddler).

Tangled up in ivy: Writing Process Revealed Part II

When last I visited the story behind the story of Lost in the Ivy, I had just moved into a $500-a-month studio apartment in what I will describe as a grey area on the edge of both Wrigleyville and Boys Town.  Like the main character in the novel, Charley Hubbs, I had a minimalist approach to interior decorating and furniture.  There was a futon, a chair, a side table, a halogen lamp, a stereo and a TV.   All except for the TV were black.  I guess I also had a dark side.

I was sandwiched between two single females.  On one side was an oversexed, usually unemployed accountant who always wore black and seemed intent on trying to bed me (she didn't succeed).  She was quite complimentary, by the way, of my interior design.  On the other side was a mousy wannabe actress whom I didn't meet until one day she knocked on my door and asked me to catch a mouse that was loose in her apartment (I succeeded).      

Across the hallway from me was Jimmy.  Like the character Jimmie Dart in my book, the real Jimmy had an eviction notice posted on his door.  This came to symbolize his personality for me.  Truth be told, I know even less about Jimmy than I know about the single women who lived next to me.  I came to realize that he was gay but I know nothing of what he did professionally or if he was employed at all.  I never stepped inside his apartment.  We exchanged no more than a few words in the short time that I knew him.  Few of those were kinds words.  I do know that he threw some seemingly wild parties.  These kept me awake many a night, even on work nights.  Through the walls I'd hear bits and pieces of things but not enough to know what was really going on.  I imagined many things and these things I imagined spilled out in Lost in the Ivy and turned into the fictional character Jimmie Dart.

One day I came home from work to learn that Jimmy was dead.  Turns out he had died from an overdose of drugs.  My overactive imagination, however, got me wondering about other scenarios.  What if Jimmy had really been murdered?  And what if signs began to point to his quiet, unassuming, new neighbor as a suspect in his murder?  With those thoughts in mind, the seed was planted for what would become Lost in the Ivy.

Snowsuit paralysis

The Toddler
Randy Parker Action FigureYou remember it -- the scene in "A Christmas Story" where the younger brother, Randy, is mummified after his mother stuffs him into an undersized snowsuit.  For some reason I couldn't get that image out of my head after Mommy somehow packed The Toddler's size 2T body into a size 18 month snowsuit.  (Click on images to see a larger picture.)